


Lovers of Today

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-09-30
Updated: 1999-09-30
Packaged: 2018-11-20 12:01:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11335260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Late presents, answered needs...





	Lovers of Today

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Lovers of Today by Te

Lovers of Today   
by Te  
12/98  
Disclaimers: Neither of them are mine. That doesn't mean I'm less worthy. Dammit.  
Spoilers: Tiny, tiny one for that Ghosts episode. Blink and you'll miss it.  
Summary: Late presents, answered needs...  
Ratings Note: NC-17 for m/m interaction and some poor language.  
Author's Note: Viridian's "But Do You Recall" was pretty damned inspirational, I'd have to say...  
Acknowledgments: To Sister Blue for that sort of shelter not so many of us ever find. To Dawn Sharon for fine audiencing, to Viridian and Iain for many helpful comments, and to Her Spikeness for fine, thoughtful beta. All remaining mistakes and ambiguities are entirely my own fault. Please feel free to call me on them at the address below. 

* * *

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Lovers of Today  
by Te  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mulder took a pull on his beer and resisted the urge to sprawl back against the couch. It wasn't that there was anything wrong with the couch, really -- the yellow had probably once been virulent, but age and the dimness of the living room had rendered it a soothing mustard -- it was just the beer.

Gennesee Cream, known simply as "Genny" by legions of frat boys and those girls who would sooner miss a dose of Ovril than a kegger. Here, with the Gunmen, the appearance of Genny was the clearest possible sign that it was time to go.

Start him off with the good stuff, then work him down to the cheap. In all honesty, it had probably been time to leave when Frohike had broken out Milwaukee's Best -- the Beast -- Light, but Mulder really didn't want to leave at all.

It was warm here, and while Frohike had stumbled off to bed hours ago and Langly was taking a shower, John was still here. Next to him. 

Not too close, but close enough. Mulder could smell his cologne, light and somehow whimsical. For perhaps the eighteenth time he reminded himself to ask John what it was. Scully would probably like it.

Not enough to forgive him about the car keys, perhaps, but perhaps enough to let her be easier in his arms the next time he felt the urge to hug her for no reason at all.

The urge. 

Mulder was lonely, this much was clear. The holidays were over, leaving in their wake that vague sense of global morning after. A huge party that hadn't *quite* gone as expected. 

It was so easy to be bitter about the holidays. Why, there were a million new pop psychology buzzwords about it. It was practically *fashionable* to be down this time of the year. 

I'm in the mod, he thought to himself, and tried to smile. 

Mulder wondered why nobody ever talked about the morning after side of things. Sure, the holidays themselves were depressing, sad-making things, but the fact was that not *everyone* pulled out the all black clothes and bah humbug in December.

There was always that mild sense of 'well, at least *they're* happy' to fall back on, and while at the time such thoughts just jumped on the self-hatred and bounced...

Well, it was only afterwards that you realized the thought had actually helped. Now, there was all the company any misery could ever hope for, and yes, there were good reasons to be alone.

Or at least among the people you could count on being better adjusted than yourself.

"Mulder?"

"Hmm...?"

"It's four in the morning..."

"Time to go." Mulder sincerely hoped his voice spoke more of drunken slur than self-pity.

"Well, don't you have work tomorrow?"

John's voice was always so gentle. The man had never seemed quite... hard... enough to be referred to by his last name. Mulder did it anyway, though. There was something to be said for consistency.

"Nah. Took some time off."

"Really?"

The shocked disbelief *did* make him smile, and Mulder turned to look at the other man. His tie was loose, his sleeves rolled up, but Mulder didn't think it was possible for the man to ever actually look *rumpled*.

"Yeah, really."

He stood, a little shakily, and bent to place the half-full can on the table. When he rose again it occurred to him that it probably would've been a better idea to set the can down *first*.

"You really shouldn't drive..."

"I know. That's why *you're* driving me home."

"Mulder, it's late, and I've been drinking, too..."

"You've had precisely four beers in the past 6 hours."

That made John blush, and Mulder began to like the half-formed idea in his head better and better.

"You have a point. I'll just --"

"Look, if you don't want to... I don't want to make you put yourself out."

John looked at him then, really looked. Mulder wasn't worried, though. Disingenuous and manipulative, yes, but also quite drunk. Not very many people realized how much mindfucking he could really do with an alcohol flush, dilated pupils, and questionable balance.

The other man shook his head and grinned ruefully.

"I *told* them drinking was a bad idea. Do they listen to me? Nooo... Just suitboy's balls being strangled by the tighty-whiteys again..."

Mulder blinked once and swayed on his feet, and John's smile was suddenly a bit darker than it seemed it should be. 

"Get your coat, Mulder. I'm just going to tell Langly I'm taking you home."

The guilt about playing with John was fading rapidly in the face of a reckless sort of shock. "Since when do you need to verify your whereabouts with him?"

"Since we started fucking."

And, with that, John stood up and made his way toward the back. 

Leaving Mulder to think. This wasn't the way it was supposed to go. In the nascent fantasy, he'd slip into drunken slut mode, beg to touch John, beg to be touched in the sodden shamelessness of the quite late. And in the morning, the afternoon if he was very lucky or very, very good, they would agree to forget. 

However, the game couldn't be played unless John wasn't *really* aware of how much Mulder himself was directing the encounter.

The ignorance allowed Mulder perfect sluttish freedom, and John the ability to... play. Sure, there was also the burden of guilt to be considered, but Mulder wanted, very badly, to be played with. And he knew he could make it good for John.

Now, though... it was obvious John knew full well what Mulder wanted and there was a need to figure out just how he thought of that. Unbidden, John's "since we started fucking' rose to the forefront of his mind. While the idea wasn't precisely shocking, there was some question as to why John spoke of it *that* way. What was he getting himself into? How *would* John react to being used by Mulder? 

The question was, as always answered with another: How would anyone? 

But it was too easy, too facetious. No one gets through life without being used. And the whisper 'certainly not anyone with a life connected to your own' was old enough to be set aside for the moment. And yet, and yet... he was a friend. He was. 

When Margot had sent John back the wedding ring, after eight years of peaceable separation, Mulder had been there.

And catching himself in rationalization was a horrible thing.

When had he become so mercenary about emotion, friendship? 

I need, he thought, and hoped to God he was good enough to repay John whatever costs this night levied. But John wasn't back, yet. 

Mulder moved toward the sleeping quarters and tried to look like he was doing something other than listening to the harsh whispers from the darkness. In the end, though, the activity was pointless because all he heard was:

"...sleep, Langly. I'll be back."

And the brisk, efficient steps of a man on the edges of rage.

John didn't appear at all surprised to see Mulder so far away from the exit.

"Are you ready?"

"Yeah."

"We'll take my car."

"Sure."

Mulder watched the other man's eyes narrow at his quick capitulation, and found himself wondering how much he *really* knew about what Mulder wanted. He shook his head and walked out ahead of John, the warmth had become close in the last few minutes.

******

Mulder hated Volvos. Boxy, safe little things. While he was growing up, his grandmother -- the worst driver in the known universe -- had owned four of the things. Maroon, then green, then grey, then black. Over the years, she'd totaled them all, damaging the health and property of any number of bystanders, yet always making it out of the accidents unscathed. With her Bible.

It was enough to tempt anyone into the belief that Satanists walked among the faithful, not least because the woman herself was evil incarnate. 

John's Volvo, however, lacked the fundamentalist bumper stickers, the Bible sliding across the dash, and the vague miasma of brimstone and despair that might just have been the result of old ginger candy and evergreen car fresheners mingling over the years. 

John's Volvo was, in fact, rather personable.

For one thing, the interior was velour, and that made a hell of a difference when you thought about it. Leather was ice cold in D.C. Januaries, cracked and creaking; forbidding and harsh. You couldn't make velour harsh even if you subjected it to *years* of gospel.

And it smelled of nothing more ominous than that odd, spicy cologne he wore and... books.

Mulder leaned over toward the back seat, not bothering to pull back enough to avoid brushing John lightly with his hair, and rummaged until he found an old, beat-up canvas knapsack, flap open, contents spilling out randomly. 

Books. 

Not library books, just old paperbacks and a few hardcovers.

"I like to read in the car."

Mulder hadn't asked the question, but then he supposed he didn't really have to...

"Why?"

"It's... quieter... in here."

Mulder settled back in his seat and nodded.

"Back there... in the headquarters... Well, it's hard *not* to be doing something. Arguing, pretending to be appalled at whatever new foulness you've found to share with Langly, dredging the net for the flotsam of the powerful and stupid..."

"And here it's quiet, and yours, and nobody is going to make you spend six hours debating the meaning of Gorgik's collar."

Seen in profile, in the glare of traffic lights, John's arch little smile gained aspects of the demonic. "Or wear one."

Mulder shivered mildly. Volvos.

******

By the time they'd reached his apartment, Mulder had lost all desire to play games with John. He unlocked the door and walked in, tossing his jacket on the armchair, turning when he heard John close the door behind him.

"Can I get you anything?"

John cocked his head at him curiously. "What do you want from me tonight, Mulder?"

Ah, clarity. Nothing quite like it.

"I don't want to be alone tonight."

"I figured that much out."

Mulder chuckled ruefully and sat on the couch. "Take your jacket off and join me. Please."

John smiled and complied, ran the backs of his fingers along Mulder's cheek. He leaned into the touch shamelessly, closed his eyes.

"You should get a lover, Mulder."

"The fact that you're here right now doesn't say all that much for the proposition, Byers."

"Call me John."

"All right, John, but..."

The other man slid close, turned fully and kissed him. Mulder wondered when he'd had the time to eat a breath mint, but it wasn't at all curious to taste spearmint and beer on John's lips. It was, in fact, perfectly, nattily male, as was the tongue slipping easily into Mulder's mouth. Neat and right. Mulder suckled for a moment, but John pulled away before he could settle in.

"Who said I had a lover?"

And then John was kissing him again, and there was nothing to do but slump back a little and start undoing the buttons on his own shirt.

John's hand followed his progress for a while before detouring to toy with a nipple through Mulder's tee shirt. Briskly affectionate, gently matter-of-fact, whatever it was it felt *right* and Mulder arched into the touch and began to lick at John's tongue.

The hand left his nipple after far too short a time, making him groan in disappointment, but it only slipped down to his tightening suit pants and settled there. There was a thumb brushing along his fly, again and over and again, and John broke the kiss with a light nip at the corner of Mulder's mouth.

"What do you want tonight, Mulder?"

Tonight... tonight suggested other nights, but as he couldn't quite decide whether the prospect was terrifying or comforting, Mulder just let himself go a little more.

"What do you want to do to me?"

"Well, usually, the answer to that would be 'smack you,' but..."

"A spank is just a smack with a conveniency of placement, John."

The other man sucked in a breath and bit him once, just under the jaw. Perfect. 

"Your philosophy edges toward the disturbing, Mulder."

"Edges? I'm losing my touch... your beard feels wonderful."

"Where else do you want to feel it?"

There was something pleasantly shivery about a voice that sweet gaining a husk. "Don't tease me, just... just do whatever, John. I mean it."

John eased back and away, motioned for Mulder to lie down fully on the couch and began to ease his shirt away. Tugged at his tee until Mulder just pulled it off himself. 

"You always were beautiful, Mulder..."

But there was no worry about coming up with a reply to that because the soft brush of John's beard was roaming his chest like undiscovered territory, scratching and lovely on his nipples. Mulder buried his fingers in John's hair and held him close, tried not to push too hard. 

Tongue in his navel, sharp and intimate, and then John was looking up at him again. 

"Whatever."

Mulder felt no desire to hold back a chuckle. "Yeah, John, whatever."

"You discuss seduction technique with Langly, don't you?"

"Everything I know...."

"Don't frighten me."

"Could I?"

There was a pause in which Mulder was absolutely sure John was avoiding his question, but a surprisingly quick move had the other man at his ear, whispering,

"You want me to suck you, Mulder?"

His cock jumped and twitched within the confines of boxers and pants. There had been few times when Mulder had wished to be naked moreso than now. "Ahhh, fuck, John yes, you fucking tease..."

Wicked smile, curiously bright and defined against the darkness of beard, and then John was tearing -- efficiently --at his fly. A moment, a motion, and Mulder was in John's hand. Stripping stroke and he was crying out. Langly, suddenly, seemed like a lucky bastard.

And then it was all he could do not to wrench his own spine bucking hard because John was swallowing, swallowing him whole. Dark head bobbing above his crotch, heat and a clever tongue...

"John -- fuck --"

The languor of inebriation burned away rapidly under the assault, and all Mulder wanted to do was scrabble at the other man until he could get more, just more of whatever and everything else, too.

But then John yanked his pants a little further down and began brushing a knuckle against Mulder's opening. To that, there had never been any possible reaction but a helpless spread and a full-body moan. A sprawl of intentions, an easy death to weakened pride.

When John brought a finger up to Mulder's mouth he sucked it in deep, making an effort to please with the mimicry of John's continued attentions to his cock. The slide of skin over the knuckle was fascinating, intense, a sensual focus to ride out the sensations of being devoured, and make them last longer, too.

Mulder tried to map out the line of the metacarpal with his lips and tongue, grasped John's wrist when he tried to pull away and sucked harder.

Messy and hot, wet and sticky... Mulder wanted it to be daylight again, wanted to see John in this state. Wanted to see if that suit was anywhere near rumpled yet.

John released his cock with a wet smack, tonguing idly at the slit until cool air and the viciousness of the tease finally cut through the haze. 

"John, please --"

"I need my hand."

"Gonna give it back later?"

"No, but I'll give you something else..."

Mulder let go, and let himself be hypnotized again by the brief half-cheshire of another wicked smile.

John didn't take him deep again immediately, just looked at him seriously as he worked one wet finger inside him. 

"It's been a while, hunh?"

"You could say that... or you could just shut up and suck me some --"

One rake of John's finger and snottiness died hard with a landed-fish buck of the hips and a cry harsh as broken glass in the back of Mulder's throat.

The evening was turning out a lot better than he'd expected, and thoughts of the morning were distant and meaningless. Mulder lay back and opened himself to it, kicking off his pants entirely and throwing one leg over the back of the couch -- more to provide easier access than anything else, but he could *feel* John twitch at the sight and smiled lazily.

Another finger and it was a little painful, but that was all right because John was using his *other* hand to slap lightly and continuously at Mulder's cock. A subtle, stroking torture that had him writhing into the touch and working the fingers deeper inside. 

This could go on forever, as far as Mulder was concerned, but --

"Mulder --"

Sweet voice hoarse and ragged now, needful in that way that inspired any rational individual to bend and/or spread. There were times when Mulder thought of himself as rational. 

"Fuck me, John... I want it."

Full body shudder and John withdrew slowly to start getting rid of his own clothes, giving up on the shirt when the buttons proved recalcitrant. Toed off his shoes and socks and fumbled with his belt, which finally came out the loops fast and easy, and with low whoosh as it cut the air and yes, other nights seemed like a good idea. John snagged the pants before they could fall, though, reaching in one pocket for condoms and slick --

"When the hell did you have time to pick *those* up?"

"Who said they weren't on me anyway?"

And then John was kneeling back between his thighs, running a gently possessive hand over the one dangling over the back of the couch, then leaning in to rub his beard against Mulder's sensitive flesh. Mulder felt another load of pre-come shoot down his cock, and bent up awkwardly to rip the condom out of John's hand and slip it quickly over the other man's purpling cock. 

The resolve, the focused attempt to be more of a participant in this, died at the feel of all that sheathed heat and pulse. John's cock wasn't especially long, but it was thick, and definitely up there in terms of 'most beautiful things' -- at least at this moment. John pulled his hand away, and pushed him back, answering Mulder's frustrated moan with a slow stroke of body-warmed slick along his perineum and beyond. 

Inside again, more tease than test, and Mulder let his head fall back against the arm of the couch with a small, hopeful thud. And then John was slipping inside, one hand braced on a knee, the other tickling lightly along a thigh, urging. Easy request to answer and Mulder slipped his leg around John's waist and pulled him in tight, crying out at the sudden fullness.

John just knelt there and stroked Mulder's cock back to hardness, slapping at it lightly several times before beginning to rock. Mulder reached up and yanked the other man down by the shoulders, sucking his tongue into his mouth, begging for more, now. 

"OK, OK..."

And then John slipped almost all the way out before slamming back in, repeating the motion until he, apparently, lost the urge toward rhythm and just snapped and rolled. Mulder felt the other man's balls slap his ass, heard rough breathing and his own small sounds. He reached between them and steadied his own cock, letting the head be brushed by John's abdomen with each thrust, squeezing and stroking with small motions. 

Better, much better than he'd hoped and Mulder wanted this to go on forever, his ass, another man's cock, no worries beyond the hope he'd come first. And that was small in this, because John gave the same ruthless attention to his fuck as he did to anything else. Sweet, gentle man with a quiet inexorability that was currently turning Mulder into a slut, and an incoherent slut at that. 

Too quickly he felt the swirl and pull of his orgasm slam into the base of his spine and take up residence for those fleeting moments of near-pain on the edge of carnal salvation. And he was losing it, hard and unsubtle, calling John's name and bucking into the thrusts and his own pleasure. 

John rode out his orgasm, sweat dripping from his forehead onto Mulder's chest, and then continued to thrust, faster, harder; ragged and needy. Mulder just wrapped his legs around tighter and held him there for it, watching greedily for the --

"God! Mulder--"

\-- sight of utter abandon. John threw his head back and let out a series of panting moans and Mulder could almost believe he felt the other man come, deep inside him. 

A strained moment of tension above and then John was slumping on his chest, pushing at Mulder's thighs, slipping out with slow care. A few absent kisses, a lap at sweaty flesh and John was standing, shakily, and walking toward the bathroom.

Warm, damp cloth; another, deeper kiss, and John was standing again. 

"I take it you don't plan on staying the night."

"I told Langly I'd be back."

"If he's not your --" Mulder cut himself off, but his next line of thought wasn't much safer. "You're a lot like Alex, John."

Too late to bite back the words, so Mulder simply decided to look as calm as possible under John's long, measuring look. Yes, John, the same Alex I cried on your shoulder about a few years ago. The other man finally just shook his head and turned back to his clothes, eyeing the belt for a few moments, before just folding it and slipping it into his pocket.

"You should get a lover, Mulder. You should get a lover... and so. Should. I."

Mulder winced inwardly and felt himself getting angry. A lover, and obviously he wasn't John's concept of an ideal. He got up just long enough to snag the blanket from behind the couch, snuggled back into leather he knew would be uncomfortably sticky and cool in just a few minutes. 

Still better than the bed, though.

John paused at the door and smiled at him. "Get some rest, please?"

"Sure thing. Suck Langly goodnight for me."

Brief flash of anger followed by a low, humorless chuckle. "The things I do for the men in my life..." One last, dramatic sigh, and John was out the door. 

And Mulder was alone.

~~~~  
End.  
~~~~


End file.
